


Your Slightest Look Will Easily Unclose Me

by niklitera



Series: Nobody, Not Even the Rain, Has Such Small Hands [5]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Canonical Transgender Character, Dysphoria Gallore, God - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I did promise this and I am sorry, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Serious Warning for Depressive Thoughts, Serious Warning for Dysphoria, This is so sad I am sorry, agnst, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5354783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niklitera/pseuds/niklitera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned doesn't feel the rain, but he feels Jacob's arms.</p>
<p>(Or, the fic where Ned cannot be touch-starved any longer and invades the Assassin's Train at four in the morning.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Slightest Look Will Easily Unclose Me

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning, TRIGGER WARNING for Dysphoria. I cannot stress this enough.

Jacob had broken a dam.

Ned would forever blame him for it, blame him for the sleepless nights where he tossed and turned in his bed and eventually sat up, looking around his room and feeling colder than ever before. He’d blame him for the shivering, the solitude, the dark thoughts that crawled from inside the walls of his too-big home into his head through his ears. He’d blame him for the frustration, for the bruises under his eyes, for the scratches on his arms and for the constant worry that pulsed inside him when Jacob opened his mouth and said, “ _I’ve got work to do_.”

And he was a coward—of course he was, how couldn’t he? The assassin had the confidence, the persuasion, the charm, whilst all Ned had was, well, his money: his disgusting, overvalued, meaningless money, a butler who stole a coin or two, a few maidens who used to be prostitutes and the police always on his tail. A coward.

That was the reason why he’d woken up in the late hours of the night, confused and uncomfortable as he sat up on his office chair. He pulled away a few papers from his face, watched the letters, his own writing, blur before his eyes.

Ned was tired.

Ned was so very tired.

He’d been transformed into a businessman, little by little. He stood from his desk, let his hat fall on the floor and pulled his spectacles from his eyes, rubbing them slowly. In truth, he could use some sleep, but he knew it’d be useless to try—he hadn’t slept well since that day Jacob reminded him that he could actually feel like a normal human being.

So instead of dressing down into his pyjamas for the night, Ned grasped some old clothes he had on the bottom of one of his dressers and left the shirt and tie for another day, electing his most inconspicuous outfit.

Again, he was dressed as a thief.

And roaming the streets at such late hour had advantages and disadvantages. The latter mainly being the drunks, the not-so-polite whores that couldn’t take a hint, the ever-present rain in the late Autumn night and the little shits that had no honour when it came to stealing. Yet he discarded it all for the silence when there was no one, not even a single breath. There was no one to look at him, no one to talk to him, no one to remind him that he was not, in fact, alone and by himself and that the reason why he felt loneliness was because he was incapable of holding on to people for too long without hurting them out of frustration.

Soon enough he was shivering, though, soaked to the bone, and for some reason when he looked up he was next to the station where a familiar steam train was resting, a few voices drifting from the wagons at the beginning of the machine. Ned wished to say that he hesitated—but he didn’t. He did shuffle his feet a bit, and maybe he wrapped his arms around himself and held himself tighter just in case his body decided to finally shatter, yet he opened the door that led to one of he newer wagons and opened it, stepping inside.

He was surprised when he saw that even though the lights were on, there was nobody there. At least, he thought so until a hint of movement caught his eyes and he moved forward, coming face-to-face with Evie herself, various papers in hand that looked pretty top-secret and important.

“Mr. Wynert?” her eyebrows shot up.

“U-uh,” Ned tried not to look like a fool, failing wondrously. “I was… walking.”

_Brilliant, Ned._

“Jacob’s asleep,” the assassin frowned. “You’re drenched, though, what were you doing outside at such weather? And so late an hour! Would you like some dry clothes?”

“Sure-e,” fuck, he was shivering up good. Bet his lips looked blue, too.

He waited for the woman to fetch him clothes and, for a moment, he felt a bit like back when he was in New York. He was fifteen again, confused about everything and more than a little lost in such a vast, wide world that held so many possibilities. He did not see skies, though, and the accent he heard wasn’t the familiar tilt he was used to. He’d been used to. Sometimes he could barely remember the colour of the walls of his room back in America.

“Here,” Evie smiled at him, offering clothes that really, could only be Jacob’s because they were huge. “I’ll be in the next wagon, if you need me.”

“Thank you, Ms. Frye,” Ned was actually proud for not stuttering.

He changed quickly, as always. Shed his clothes and avoided brushing against the bandages wrapped tight around his chest, swallowing down the hundreds of emotions trying to climb out of his throat. When his nose brushed the much-too-big shirt, he realized that yes, it was Jacob’s. It smelled of poppys and clean cotton. He rubbed his eyes and sat down for a moment, wondering what the hell was he even doing.

It was so very late, and he’d dressed up as a beggar to stumble through the rain and knock on Jacob’s door _only to have his goddamn sister answer_. Of course Jacob was sleeping, like any other normal person would do. It wasn’t his fault Ned couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t his fault Ned felt cold. It wasn’t his fault that Ned was desperately, absolutely and completely in love with him and craved every second to be spent alongside the youngest of the Frye twins.

“Shite,” a familiar voice sighed, and Ned looked up to see Evie disappear with a wave and Jacob pull on his ear—shirtless and on his pyjama pants. Sure. He could’ve just pulled out his kukri and done him over. “Evie was right.”

“What did she say?” Ned attempted a smirk but the urge to cry was stronger than that. “ _Hey, brother, I found a drowned rat in our doorstep_? It’d be fitting.”

Jacob seemed to ignore him, approaching him with a deep frown on his face. Ned realized then that Evie had woken him up and the guilt slammed against him like a free fall splat against the ground. He didn’t move, though, as Jacob watched him where he stood, seemingly thoughtful over something, analyzing him like a lab rat.

“Are they wet, too?” Jacob finally spoke.

“What?” Ned frowned.

“Bandages,” the assassin mumbled. “If you keep them on, you’ll hurt your ribs. And if they’re wet, you’ll catch a cold. You’re too thin and—blimey, Ned, what were you thinking? It’s Autumn, for God’s sake, it’s freezing outside at this hour!”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he responded in a whisper.

“Well, then you could’ve j—wait,” Jacob stopped the annoyed, exasperated teasing and leaned down a little, making Ned’s pulse quicken. “Christ, Ned, how long has this been going on?”

“A while, I guess,” he swallowed.

He could tilt his head and kiss him.

He could. And Jacob would refuse, push him away. Oh, but Ned didn’t care anymore what those hands did to him. If instead of touching softly they collided against him he did not care. He wanted the warmth, the familiarity, the—the _safety_. He had never felt safe, never felt validated, never felt like he was something worth paying attention to yet there was Jacob, looking horrified at the simple prospect of Ned missing a few weeks of sleep or maybe a month.

“Alright, that’s it,” Jacob groaned, rubbing his face harshly. “You—you’re a wreck.”

“Thanks, Frye,” Ned scoffed, rolling his eyes, but the taller man glared at him for the very first time and—and he _meant it_.

“Damn it, Ned!” he burst, and it made him jump. He’d seen Jacob angry before, of course he had. That was Jacob’s default emotion whenever they spoke of people, government or the world itself. Just that… it’d never been directed at him. It was unsettling. “I am sick and I am tired of this!”

“This as in me?” Ned frowned.

“No, Jesus—” his hand moved and yes, please, _yes, fuck, it was on his shoulder_. “You are killing yourself here! You jump out of windows, never eat, get into the shadiest parts of London without any care and try to catch something that could _kill you_ because you couldn’t sleep!”

Ned didn’t care. Oh, _God, he didn’t care he didn’t care he didn’t care because there was that warmth again and it felt like a drop of spring in the middle of a snowy plain and never before had he felt like a flower in bloom or like a music box being opened for the very first time but he did now and—_

His forehead fell against Jacob’s shoulder as his body shook, chest wet and impossibly cold but the places where he touched the assassin felt cozy, familiar and safe. He trembled at the feeling, remembering his childhood when his mother would cradle him in her arms. It was all but a vision, a single image of a memory, but it was enough to send another shiver down his spine and an involuntary sob crack out of his throat.

“I-I’m s-s-so c-cold,” he stuttered out, and threw all logic out of he window as he burrowed deeper into Jacob’s neck, chest, arms that quickly wrapped around him.

“You have to change the bandages, Ned,” Jacob said softly, brushing his soppy hair away from his eyes. “You’ll get ill otherwise.”

“I don’t want to look at myself,” Ned shook his head. “Please.”

“You have to, darling,” he sighed. “It’s for your own good.”

“Would you—” Ned opened his fists to grab onto Jacob’s thumb, on his opposite arm. “Would you stay? And turn around and all but—stay? Please?”

“Alright,” he accepted, squeezed his small hand and stood again, turning around.

And then—then came the hardest part of the day. Ned tried to do it like he always did, mechanically. He distanced himself from what his fingers were doing, from what he felt and how he felt about it. He ignored the nauseous feeling on the bottom of his stomach, the disgust and the self-hatred, pulling and unrolling the drenched bandages from his body until he was out in the open, his secret on the floor—dirty and rotten and full of untold secrets to the world.

His ribs hurt.

“I need dry ones,” Ned murmured.

“You can’t sleep with them,” Jacob told him, still turned around. Ned felt bile rising on the back of his throat. Jesus, no. Not today.

“I don’t care,” he choked out.

“But I do.”

Ned glared at the floor. Damn it. Damn him. Damn him and every single thing that came out of his mouth that gave him hope, that gave him life, that gave him warmth. Jacob was—Summer. Pure summer. He was green pastures, grassy plains, swaying trees, a warm breeze and poppys in bloom next to a field of cotton. And Ned was Winter because he had known nothing else since his mother caught him with the clothes thieves wore and she began to cry and one of her music boxes broke.

Liar.

“Liar,” he tried to say, but the word died on his throat because Jacob had turned now to him and he couldn’t get his arms around his chest fast enough. “Don’t look at me!”

“Ned,” he began, but the American quickly shut his eyes.

“Don’t look at me!”

_“You will never be a man!”_

“Ned, listen to me,” Jacob pleaded.

He had—had all this _baggage_. His father had been right. He was no man. He was no man, he was no—no man at all. He’d never get the body he wanted, he’d never feel full, complete, like a whole person. A whole… something. He’d been wasting everyone’s time believing there was something worth doing that might just make him feel alive but the only one who had done so did not deserve to carry his weight.

And then Jacob touched him.

And no, it wasn’t like before, when he’d placed a single, small kiss upon his forehead, no. Now he took his hands and he lifted them away from his body and before he could even think about panicking there was hard, steady warmth against him and his lips were firmly pressed against his temple, kissing twice before settling on the corner of his eye. Ned blinked—twice, in fact—and again and again, trying to reign in his emotions as Jacob kept trailing kisses on his face.

He tried not to cry.

He really did.

“I’m sorry you feel like this,” the assassin began whilst he cried out, releasing his hands in order to clutch his bare back, nails digging into flesh— _real and here with him_. “I know I can’t do much for you, but if anything, I know you actually like it when I touch you. You just need to get used to it.”

“Please don’t leave,” Ned begged in a wrecked tone.

“I’m not, I’m not,” Jacob chuckled, his chin resting on top of the thief’s head. “I know this is forward of me to ask, and not very gentlemanly, but would you like to sleep with me tonight? In my bed? Just—sleeping, you know. I’m not actually propositioning you for a shag or anything.”

“Yes,” Ned nodded. “I… I want to sleep.”

“Alright then—” his hands moved swiftly, and calloused thumbs brushed under his eyes o gather the tears. Ned felt inappropriate, still crying in shame and anger and frustration and maybe a little bit of relief, really—but he took Jacob’s hand as he guided them to the last and newest wagon. “Come on, you furnished this yourself. I hope you don’t have the bottles to criticize it, yeah?”

“Shut up,” Ned laughed, hiccupping slightly.

They didn’t—didn’t exactly step into bed together. It wasn’t like that. First Jacob kept touching him so much, as in, his hands went to places Ned had never been touched before: the small of his back, his waist, the crook of his neck and shoulder, thumb rubbing against his collarbone against his own shirt. Then Ned’s eyes drooped and Jacob lowered him into bed until he was tucked under the sheets, between the wall and the assassin’s own body.

And Ned slept.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm going to be honest: this was awfully hard to do. It was supposed to be a little angsty at first, where Jacob and Ned explored a little the 'hey let's touch' territory, but then I had a terrible day and this came out and it turned out good so: yeah.


End file.
